Chapter 4
The county records office occupied a low brick building beside the library, with narrow windows and a flag that hung almost still in the gray morning. I parked at the far end of the lot and stayed in my car long enough to read the email on my phone again.
We can discuss your request in person. Please bring government-issued identification.
There was no explanation. No promise. Just a time and a room number.
I tucked my phone into my coat pocket and touched the locket beneath my shirt. The metal was cold from the walk across the parking lot.
Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of paper, dust, and the burnt coffee someone had left near the reception desk. A woman behind the counter looked up when I gave my name. She was in her sixties, with silver hair clipped at the back of her head and a county badge pinned to her sweater.
“Emily what?” she asked.
I told her.
Her fingers paused over the keyboard.
It lasted less than a second, but I saw it.
“Room three,” she said. “Someone will meet you there.”
The records specialist was a thin man named Mr. Alvarez. He checked my identification twice, then closed the folder in front of him without turning it toward me.
“I need to be clear about what I can release,” he said. “Some records are public. Some aren't. Original birth entries can be restricted, especially if there was an adoption, guardianship, or a court order.”
“I understand.”
“Do you know the date and county of your birth?”
I gave him both. My voice sounded steady until I said the date aloud. It was the date I had always known, printed on every form and repeated whenever someone asked. For the first time, it felt less like a fact than a door.
Mr. Alvarez typed. The room was quiet except for the soft tapping of keys.
Then he stopped.
“I found a matching entry.”
My hands tightened around the edge of the chair. “What does it say?”
“I can't show you the original record. Not yet.” He turned the monitor slightly away from me, as if the angle itself could protect the information. “But I can confirm that the date matches, and the maternal name connected to the restricted entry is Margaret Ashford.”
I heard the name without understanding it.
Margaret.
Not the woman from the restaurant. Not the woman whose face had crumpled when she saw my birthmark. A name in a county system. Ink, dates, a sealed line that had survived longer than anyone's explanation.
“Is there a child's name?” I asked.
“There are several linked records. The original entry is restricted.”
“Is the child listed as Emily?”
His expression changed carefully. Not surprise exactly. Caution.
“I can't confirm details from a restricted document.”
That answer told me enough to make my throat ache.
He explained the request process. I would need to submit a formal application, proof of identity, and a statement explaining why I was requesting access. Depending on the type of restriction, the office might need a court review or permission from another agency.
I filled out the form with a pen chained to the desk.
When I reached the line asking for the reason, I wrote: I believe this record may establish my identity and family history.
I didn't write Margaret's name. I wasn't ready to put her into my handwriting.
Mr. Alvarez accepted the paperwork and gave me a stamped copy.
“Keep this,” he said. “It proves you submitted the request.”
Outside, the air had sharpened. I sat on a bench near the library and stared at the stamp until the red ink blurred.
My phone rang.
The county office number appeared on the screen.
I answered without speaking.
“Is this Emily?” a man asked.
“Yes.”
“This is the clerk from records. I wanted to let you know your request was entered.”
“Thank you.”
There was a small pause. “Someone called asking about the request.”
My stomach tightened. “Who?”
“He identified himself as Thomas Ashford.”
I looked across the parking lot at the dark windows of the county building.
“What did he say?”
“He asked whether your request involved his family.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“That I couldn't discuss your records. I told him he would need to submit his own request.”
I thanked her again, though my voice had gone thin.
By the time I reached my car, another message had arrived. It was from Margaret.
I heard you went to the county office. I understand why. I won't interfere.
I read it twice.
A second message followed.
Thomas may try to make you believe the records belong to him. They don't.
I put the phone facedown on the passenger seat. I wanted to believe she was warning me. I also knew that warnings could be another way of shaping what a person feared.
At work that evening, the manager watched me remove my coat.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I'm fine.”
She didn't argue. She only glanced at the locket chain that had slipped above my collar and then looked away.
During my break, I checked the stamped copy again. The paper was ordinary. The result wasn't.
The county had not given me a complete answer, but it had given me something I could carry into every conversation from that point forward.
May you like
The connection was documented.
No one could turn it into a feeling and ask me to forget the rest.
